


They Had Three Failed Dates and Then

by Briersville



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briersville/pseuds/Briersville
Summary: Oh the beauty of youth, even mistakes are sweet — literally. It all started on a particularly hot day, when sixteen-year-old Alfred F. Jones, on the verge of a heatstroke, decided that a certain Russian was actually a certain type of cold sweets.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 40





	They Had Three Failed Dates and Then

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [三次他们约会失败，还有一次](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938476) by [Briersville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briersville/pseuds/Briersville). 



> Basically rewrote the same story in a different language. Cold War? What Cold War? I just want to write crack.  
>   
> No stereotypically evil Slavic maniac rapist nor all saintly miserable I-have-issues-but-I-will-save-you-first American angel! My fanfic my rule won’t accept any objections!  
>   
> Sorry. Still, I love uke!Russia.

A brief bio of Alfred F. Jones: he is sixteen yeas old, never tells anyone what his middle name is, and his top three favourite things: burgers, iced cola, and Wi-Fi.

But that was until the air conditioning at his high school stopped working.

Alas, people only realise the importance of something when it is no longer around. If Alfred had known this day would come, he would at least switch one of his top three favourites to AC. This must be a retaliation from the god of AC, oh yes. But which one on the list should he replace? Alfred lay his head sideways on the canteen table, glasses off, eyes staring into the deep desperation of nothingness, trying to cool down his heated face against the table surface. Maybe AC could take the place of Wi-Fi, but what would be the difference between Alfred F. Jones without Wi-Fi and a chunk of dried meat? Oh, why did he have to face this painful dilemma in the first place? Sweat rolled down his neck and collarbone, soaking Alfred's T-shirt. In his peripheral vision, the head boy’s hair was annoyingly blonde, reminding Alfred of the sinister sunlight outside the window.

“…Which means you still need to work on improving your English grades. I say, Alfred!” Arthur bellowed, putting down his empty tea cup with excessive force, sending vibration straight to one of Alfred’s ears which was stuck to the table. “Are you listening to me or not?”

“Don’t ask me if I’m listening to you when I can’t even bring myself to eat a burger alright Artie?” Alfred rolled his eyes in a style which more than anything showed the blood relation between the two of them. “So damn hot…” Every breath he let out seemed like it came out of a furnace, burning the inside of his mouth. 

“Americans are too reliant on air conditioning.” There was a hint of worry on Arthur’s face, but Alfred was too dizzy to see it. He just vaguely noticed the head boy turning around to greet someone, before saying, “Of course you can sit here. Alfred, make some room!”

Ears ringing, Alfred reluctantly raised his head. He could only see a blurred silhouette, either because he didn’t have his glasses on, or because he was too faint. This silhouette appeared to be white in colour, so unique in character that it was refreshing like a gust of northern wind in the too colourful, too noisy student canteen.

Alfred smiled a dreamy smile. A white silhouette. White, soft, cool…Cool, soft, white…

At long last, in that very heated moment, his brain officially stopped functioning, and concluded this “silhouette” must be a giant ice cream.

Today’s weather was extremely hot, and the high school’s air conditioning had stopped working. Now, a high school student saw an ice cream in front of him. Question: what would be his next step of action?

Alfred threw himself at the ice cream.

He opened his mouth like a greedy dragon to take a bite —

And then, nothing.

Sounds of keyboard.

Something hard and cold on his forehead, almost grating. 

Alfred opened his eyes to white ceiling. A roll of his eyes, and he saw white sheets. In a nearby chair, Arthur Kirkland was typing on his laptop with a look of concentration.

Alfred raised his hand to take off the thing on his forehead — a plastic bag filled with ice so oddly shaped they might have been chewed by a polar bear. “Did you steal this from a fish market or something?”

“We couldn’t fit the student health’s ice packs around that thick head of yours so Ivan made this with the fridge in the teacher’s lounge,” said Arthur, “You seem astonishingly energetic just waking up from a heatstroke.” 

“Heatstroke?” Alfred’s eyes widened, “That’s so damn lame! Ending up in student health for the first time in my life for…For a heatstroke?! Oh ouch!!!”

The sight of his cousin hugging his own head and crying out in pain evoked some sympathy in Arthur. “If it can restore your confidence for a bit, you actually took a hit on the head before passing out,” he said, “Is the swelling better now?”

Alfred, just a second ago so firm and unyielding against the oddly shaped ice-bag, put it back again for the swelling on his forehead. “What the hell happened?!”

“I might ask you that. Does cannibalism run in the Jones’ bloodline or something? You just grabbed a student and tried to bite his face! You’re bloody lucky Ivan didn’t break your neck.” 

Alfred was quiet for a moment.

“Bite…?”

“Yeah.”

“On the face…?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ivan…That’s a he?”

“What do you think?”

Alfred was again quiet for a moment.

“I swear I thought he was an ice cream!!! It was too hot my brain wasn’t working properly!”

Arthur closed the lid of his laptop with a crisp “tap”. “So many brains don’t function properly in heat but only you tried to bite a person! Go apologise to Ivan; you’re making me lose face!”

He stood up with the might of a king, pushed the chair aside, and did not forget to say, before leaving the room, “For your own good: the security footage in the canteen is only available to staff, but Ivan knows a hacker.”

The ice-bag Alfred threw out didn’t hit him.

“Ivan”, officially known as Ivan Braginsky, is a Russian immigrant whose patronymic is known to no one. In this regard he is similar to Alfred, who has kept his middle name secret from everyone.

Braginsky is a year older than Alfred, though different from the American boy who rose to fame almost the instant he entered this high school, he remained a low-key loner. This was probably why Alfred had never heard of his name before. Braginsky was not in any student organisations — he once started a Soviet literature club, which disintegrated within a year as all other members quitted; after that Arthur invited him to join the witchcraft club, but Braginsky did not stay long due to oppositions from other witchcraft fans.

As of now, the school library is his primary habitat, and he sometimes wander to the English teachers’ office as well.

These were the intelligence information Arthur provided. 

“Why don’t you just give me his number?” Alfred protested, “You can’t expect me to look for him in the library or a teacher’s office!”

“An apology sent by text is no apology at all,” said Arthur with British Empire level cruelty, “And the success rate of finding him is too low in the library or the office. You should at least go to his locker in the morning. The number is 1225.”

“Then why the fuck did you just say all that useless stuff?!”

Of course Arthur had good reason for saying “all that useless stuff”.

Since their head boy is so obviously obsessed with magic and witchcraft, the students of this high school always forget that Arthur Kirkland, from England, is just as in love with drama.

And what better drama than one played by his very own irritating cousin?

Alfred set his alarm clock an hour early than usual, arrived in the school corridor when it was completely empty, and lurked somewhere near the locker numbered 1225.

He felt it was too rom-com to wait right in front of it.

To be honest, Alfred would have apologised to Ivan even without Arthur’s threat. He had dreamed of becoming a hero since three years old, and the precious thing is this dream remains concrete even at the age of sixteen. He even abides by his own hero codes.

Which of course dictates when Alfred accidentally bites someone, he must apologise to the victim.

The corridor was filling up with students, but no one has come near locker 1225. Alfred kept looking at his watch; he didn’t want to miss his first morning class. At the same time other students kept looking at him, clearly curious why the star of their school swimming team was trying to hide behind some lockers. 

When Braginsky finally appeared, Alfred noticed the change in atmosphere immediately. He saw the sea of students disperse as if Moses himself had arrived, and then there, a tall boy was walking towards locker 1225, neither too fast or too slow. He was carrying a huge backpack, with a scarf fluttering behind like a flag. Oh the imposing air around him —

This is how the owner of a pig farm walk around his pigs! Alfred decided. 

Seriously, what kind of person wears a scarf in early summer?

And he dashed towards the “pig farm owner” with a roar: “Ivan Braginsky!!!”

The corridor fell silent. Every eye was on the Russian student and Alfred in front of him.

A hint of surprise crossed Braginsky’s face, but just for half a second. He glanced around the staring students with a smile: “What are you looking at?”

His voice was so tender, sweet even, but the crowd immediately looked away and proceeded with their own business as if nothing ever happened.

Then Braginsky looked towards Alfred again, still wearing a smile on his face but with no warmth in the eyes: “What do you want, Jones?”

Alfred uttered not a single word.

At this distance, he saw clearly for the first time what the victim he almost bit in the canteen looks like, and Ivan Braginsky — well, he has a pair of amethyst eyes.

Of course he also has soft, platinum-blond hair, a chiseled nose and snow-like cheeks, which are not bad either. But.

Wow he has amethyst eyes, thought Alfred.

“If you don’t have anything to say can you just go away,” said Braginsky, “I need to put my books in the locker.”

“Braginsky! I mean Ivan!” Not only did Alfred not go away, he held locker 1225 hostage to negotiate with the Russian. “I just want to say sorry! I had a heatstroke in the canteen that day and didn’t know what I was doing!”

Ivan’s smile cracked a little bit: “Does a heatstroke make you want to eat other humans? If so shouldn’t you be in a mental asylum instead of a high school?” 

“That’s cause I thought you —” Alfred almost told the truth but bit his tone just in time. Literally. “Blahhhhh ice cream!”

“…What?”

“I mean,” Alfred tasted blood on his own tongue. Oh shit this would hurt. “Ice cream, yeah, let me treat you to some ice cream!”

The somehow smily curve on Ivan’s lips was now completely vanished.

“Are you messing with me, Jones? Want a bigger lump on your head?”

Out of reflexes Alfred shivered. The swelling he got earlier did not go away even after two days, and now whenever Alfred came home his mum would have a boiled egg ready to shove onto his forehead. 

But that was because the hero was unprepared in the canteen. Today’s Alfred was a different person!

“That’s just my apology! Aren’t you sensitive?” he laughed his signature laugh.

The Russian’s fist came before he could finish.

Alfred received a text from Arthur.

_Did you apologize to Ivan? What’s with the commotion this morning?_

_I did but he’s so strange!_ Alfred typed under his desk. _We’re heading out together for ice cream this weekend ∂ω∂ and I got his number!_

It took a moment for Arthur to reply.

_A warrior, you._

Alfred smirked. 

_TBH this might be love at first sight! He looks like,_ Alfred searched for the right words, _Vanilla sundae without condiments! And pure white marble cake! With the eyes of Elizabeth Taylor!_

This time Arthur took even longer to reply.

_Alfred. Cannibalism is a serious condition. You should probably see a doctor._

Ivan Braginsky already knew Alfred F. Jones when the younger student just entered this school.

Even without his relation to their head boy, Jones’ own aura could not be overlooked.

To put it in a somewhat vulgar way, his hair reminds one of the golden wheat harvest of Kansas, and his eyes the heartbreakingly blue sky of California. He talks as he pleases, laughs as he pleases. He is a sun amidst the crowd.

Not to mention Jones is also on the school swimming team. One cannot remain ignorant of his name when it’s printed on a banner and hung in a school corridor every time he wins a championship. 

Ivan supposed he was probably envious of Jones, just for a tiny bit. What does it feel like to be adored by so many, to be friends with so many?

Right now, however, that tiny bit of envy that he hid so well inside his heart seemed to have undergone a transformation.

“I think I might be a little romantically inclined towards Alfred F. Jones.” He told Francis when their chemistry class was about to end.

Francis almost crashed a tube he just washed. “Merde! My dear, could you please not tell horror stories when I’m handling school property?”

“This is not a horror story. I’m serious.”

Francis put a hand on his chest, still visibly shaken. He put away the tube, let out a breath, then switched to his “big brother is here for you” mode. “Why don’t you elaborate? What’s going on?” 

“Do you remember what I told you about how he tried to attack me in the canteen but I knocked him out instead?” Ivan unbuttoned his lab coat, “I thought he was an idiot weakling. This morning he came again to scold me. I wanted to punch his face but he caught my fist!”

Francis gaped. “So you basically had a fight.”

“Indeed, and he fought back this time. It was an even match,” Ivan’s face melted into a vague, dreamy smile. “It’s a pity the bell rung before we could finish. Such a rare, lovable American.” 

Francis is romantic by nature, but this really made him want to ask if the mating preference of Russian males have anything to do with the stereotypical perception of their tendency towards violence.

But he didn’t dare.

He just proceeded to take off his rubber gloves and replied, drily, “Congratulations then.”

Ivan sighed: “He wanted to take me to an ice cream place to apologize for the canteen incident. This is so nerve-wrecking.”

One of Francis’ rubber gloves flew across the lab.

On Saturday afternoon, Ivan was waiting at the bus stop Alfred designated, wearing his second favourite scarf.

Seven minutes past their appointed meeting time, he heard the sound of bicycle bell. Riding a red-and-blue bicycle wearing a bright yellow helmet, Alfred F. Jones heroically entered the scene!

“Hey Ivan! Let’s go!”

Ivan stared. “Why are you on a bike?”

“Haven’t taken the road test yet for my driver’s license,” said Alfred as if he was saying Earth is not flat. Then he realized the problem. “Wait where’s your — damn I forgot to tell you we need to bike there!”

“We can take the bus,” Ivan said, “If it’s not crowded your bike can get on as well.”

“Oh no, the bus doesn’t reach that place,” Alfred patted the back seat of his bike, “But don’t worry! Come on, I’ll take you there!”

Five minutes later, Ivan was sitting on the back seat, his two endless Slavic legs dragging on the ground. Alfred pedaled. The bike did not move an inch. 

Ten minutes later, Alfred’s helmet was hung on the handle, and Alfred himself on a walking journey with Ivan towards his beloved ice cream store, dragging the bike along with them.

“It’s so damn hot I’m dying!” Alfred charged into the air conditioned store, greeting the lady behind the counter. “Hey Marian! My usual please!” He turned to Ivan. “What do you want?”

Ivan was looking around the store. He has never been here. “Mango.”

The colour of mango ice cream always reminds him of sunflowers.

And thus, Ivan with his large-cup mango ice cream and Alfred with his grandissimo, tri-coloured, raspberry, coconut and blueberry ice cream, decorated with little stars, found a table to sit.

“Anyway,” said Alfred, “Just want to say sorry. I didn’t intend to bite. It was really just the heat messing up my brain.”

“Mm.” Ivan took a small spoonful of the yellow ice cream in front of him.

“It’s the AC’s fault! I wouldn’t have had a heatstroke if it wasn’t broken.”

“Oh.” Ivan let the ice cream melt on his tongue. Sweet. 

He did not know what to say. If it had been someone else trying to bite him, Ivan would have punched the person right into the hospital. But Alfred is also a good fighter. Ivan wasn’t confident he could send the boy into a hospital without sending himself in as well.

Besides, he kind of adored Alfred now.

What were Francis’ suggestions to him on dates again?

“Do Russians normally eat ice cream? It’s so cold in your country!” Alfred’s question was blurred by the ice cream in his mouth.

Oh yes, Francis said one should try to find some light-hearted, humorous topics of conversation. Jokes, for example. 

So Ivan replied, “Indeed, we Russians just go outdoor and dig up snow to eat.”

Alfred’s eyes widened. His tongue was tainted blue. “But snow doesn’t have any taste!”

“That’s alright, we just add a handful of sugar.” Ivan kept his cool. He was proud of how quick he came up with a proper answer.

Francis, ever so patient, waited until the evening to text Ivan. _How was your date?_

 _I wouldn't call it a date,_ Ivan replied, _He just wants to bribe me into not giving him trouble again. Besides I did as you suggested and joked with him, but he didn’t laugh at all._

 _Maybe joking is currently too high-end for you. Let’s try again after some more practice._ Francis sent a sweating emoji.

_But he did ask if I wanted to come to the pool and watch him train next week._

Francis fell off his bed.

 _He’s definitely into you!!!_ He struggled to grab his phone and typed, lying stomach-first on the floor.

 _Or maybe he’s just too straight._ Ivan expressed his usual pessimism. 

_How was your date? You still alive?_ Alfred saw a text from Arthur after arriving home.

_AWFUL! This is not a date in any way! Ivan didn’t have a bike so I wanted to take him on my own but I FAILED!!!_

Arthur sent over his laugh by text. Even on a screen it looked menacing. 

_Then I started a smalltalk to lighten the mood and he scolded me!!!_ Alfred was not even using emojis any more, which was pretty telling. _He must think I’m an idiot!_

 _It’s not that Ivan thinks you’re an idiot,_ Arthur consoled his cousin, _It’s just you are indeed an idiot._

_What kind of cousin are you! I won’t ever tell you anything about it! No more!_

A minute later Alfred sent another text to Arthur. _But he agreed to come watch my swim training next week. That means at least he doesn’t hate me right?_

Arthur whistled before replying, _Don’t know if he hates you, but next week you’re probably gonna know if he’s straight or not._

Even when he was sitting in the pool audience stand, Ivan was still texting with Francis for their debate on whether inviting another man to his swim training means a man is gay.

Then he saw Alfred waving to him by the pool. Ivan immediately put up the hard-cover, original Russian version of _Mother_ — which he prepared in advance — to hide his phone.

Alfred has a healthy tan and a six-pack. He’s just sixteen, Ivan thought, it might as well grow into an eight-pack in the future. 

Alfred was having a few words with his coach. He pulled down his goggles and gave Ivan a bright smile.

Ivan could not help smiling a bit in return, but Alfred had already dived into the pool. His speed, the movement of his muscles in the water — everything felt so youthful and alive.

Ivan lowered his head. No, he’s just appreciating Jones’ muscles from a strictly artistic perspective! He’s not shaming the book he’s holding!

The screen of his phone lit up. It was a text from Francis again.

_How’s the training? [wink]_

Ivan threw a glance at the pool: Alfred was on his second round. He held the book with one hand on his knee and typed single-handedly: 

_Not bad._

_I don’t feel the passion! Took any photos? [wink]_

It was at this moment that Ivan realised, though he himself had never been to any of the school swimming team’s competitions, all the other students were quite enthusiastic about them.

Photos, huh.

He sent Francis a smiley face.

When his training ended, Alfred put his elbows on the edge of the pool and called out to Ivan: “You not coming down here?”

Ivan wanted to say no, but apparently his legs had thoughts of their own. Before realising what he was doing, he was already standing by the poolside, looking down at Alfred.

“Come closer. It’s tiring talking to you like that,” Alfred pushed up his goggles, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of water?”

“In your dreams,” Ivan scoffed. He took a step forward and squatted down. “What do you want?”

“Just want to see them under the lighting here too. Wow, your eyes really are violet!” Alfred stared, “Like Elizabeth Taylor!”

“Oh.” said Ivan. He could not fathom if this was a compliment.

“How did I do? I’m one more championship away from my sportsman scholarship but Gilbert always says I need to work harder. I’m confident though.” Alfred was treading the water now.

“That’s nice,” Ivan decided he had better return the favour even if what Alfred just said wasn’t a compliment. “I think the way you swim is…Well, just like a killer whale.”

_I’m pretty certain Jones is a straight guy,_ Ivan texted Francis, _And he likes Elizabeth Taylor. This is just a straight guy showing off, definitely not a date._

“I failed again! I’ve never failed in the pool before!” Alfred howled to Arthur on their call. He felt texting was not enough to convey his emotions any more. “He said I’m like a KILLER WHALE! I’m not even close to being that fat!”

Francis, chilling out wearing a clay mask, did not think much when he replied, _Maybe he thinks dates have to involve sweets. Treat him to some frozen yogurt next time. Stop guessing and ask him directly. Americans know nothing about subtlety, you know._

Arthur, chilling out with his afternoon tea, did not think much when he replied, “Think positive. Maybe Russians like chubby guys.”

Alfred and Ivan spent quite some time navigating the mall before reaching the frozen yogurt shop. According to Ivan, this place is super popular because it provides “unlimited yogurt” so long as you pay over a certain amount. Many come to take advantage of this and it’s a mystery why the store hasn’t gone bankrupt yet.

“I’ve actually never been to this place…Have you?” Alfred stared at the crowd inside, which was a perfect resemblance of age-group diversity in customer base, ranging from eighty-year-old grannies to eight-year-old boys. 

“My sister recommended this place,” Ivan admitted, “I didn’t know it would be like this…”

Alfred found it exceptionally cute that Ivan unconsciously stroke on his own scarf when he was disturbed.

They each took a paper cup and got in the line.

Alfred was stealing glances at Ivan’s profile. The store was bustling with noise, with teens chattering and kids yelling, but when he was looking at Ivan, it was as if everything had become quiet.

Are there really people who love being alone so much? He asked himself. Won’t Ivan ever feel lonely?

Was Ivan sad when the club he started was disintegrated? Was he angry when forced to leave a new club because others didn’t want him? Does he like being alone, or is he forced to be alone?

Alfred more or less understands why other students feared the Russian, but he is not among them. All things aside, Alfred F. Jones is probably the only student who can get into an even fight with Ivan Braginsky.

Faint sadness suddenly grasped him amidst all the noises. He stared at Ivan’s profile, feeling he would lose something if he didn’t say something now. Alfred is no poet; he always speaks what he thinks and pours out all the emotions in his heart. His previous hesitance ebbing away, this young hero’s chest swells with courage and pride. He took a step forward to grab Ivan’s shoulder: “Hey Ivan listen —”

And he stepped right onto a splash of melted frozen yogurt someone had spilled on the floor.

A passionate confession turned into an indecent “fuck,” when Ivan turned, he was greeted with an Alfred who looked absolutely terrified, sliding towards the front, the back, the right, and the left, moving his waist, arms and hips in the process trying to maintain balance. Confusion crossed the Russian’s face, and then, Alfred grabbed his hands: “Ivan help meeeeee!”

Ivan’s amethyst eyes widened.

The two of them held on tightly to each other’s hands, their cups falling together, their feet stepping onto melted yogurt together, their bodies sliding on the floor together; when one leaned forward the other leaned back, when Alfred leaned right Ivan leaned left. Round and round they went like a figure skating pair, as every customer in the store moved out of their away in horror. At last, Alfred made a decision. He pushed towards the only safe region in the store that could serve as a brake for them — pinning Ivan straight against a wall as a result.

They finally stopped sliding and escaped the tragic end of both falling onto the floor! 

Alfred looked at Ivan blankly. Ivan looked at him blankly.

Alfred’s heart was still racing. They were so close, he could even count Ivan’s lashes.

Someone gasped.

Hearing the sound Alfred turned, and he gasped too.

Kiku Honda from their school magazine was sitting at a table inside the frozen yogurt shop, holding a phone in hand that was faced directly at the two of them.

“Kiku?”

“Sorry I’ll be gone right now!” Kiku put away his phone, grabbed his yogurt cup and went off running.

“Wait, Kiku! Honda!”

Kiku was fast as a rabbit. Within seconds he was lost in the mall crowd.

“Do you want to grab a new cup?” asked Ivan, still leaning against the wall.

That evening, a short video titled “Kabe-Don: Jones Pinning Braginsky Against the Wall” went viral among their fellow students.

“Don’t be so sad,” said Francis, “Your date didn’t go well, but at least in terms of public opinion, you and Alfred are already a couple.”

“Public opinion doesn’t matter,” Ivan insisted, “The thing is, we didn’t even have so much as a verbal agreement. I don’t even know if he sees me as a friend.”

They have reached the school parking lot. Francis unlocked his car. “Dear Vanya, perhaps you’re inexperienced, but normally we do call those we often hang out with ‘friends’.”

“But he hasn’t contacted me in a while,” Ivan’s voice was low. “Maybe he’s angry because of that video.”

Francis sighed leaning on his car door. “Fine, I can understand you didn’t get to say what you want to say because of the…incident at the frozen yogurt shop. But why didn’t you talk to him afterwards or at least send him a text? Don’t say you’re nervous. Ivan Braginsky doesn’t get nervous.”

Ivan looked away. “A text is too light. But if I get rejected at school, that’ll be…too humiliating.”

“Merde, you’re serious,” Francis cursed, “Well if that’s the case, find another chance to talk to him in private! Invite him to your place, just,” he paused to think, “Just tell him you can help revise his essay. He definitely won’t say no to that.”

“…Thank you, Bonnefoy.” 

“My pleasure,” Francis winked at him and opened the car door. “Oh but I can’t give you a ride home today. You know, I do have a reputation — can’t afford to let anyone think I’m getting in between Jones and Braginsky!” 

When Alfred’s phone chimed he was having afternoon tea at Arthur’s house. He glanced at the screen and was visibly stunned, mistaking the jam jar as a tea cup and took it towards his lips.

“Alfred stop!” Arthur rescued the jam just in time and shoved a scone into his hand instead. “What happened that you’re bullying my jam like this?”

Alfred’s sky blue eyes stared at him, the scone in his hands broken in half. “Ivan, uh, Ivan just invited me to his home so he can, uh, help me revise my essay.”

“Your essay?” Arthur repeated. Then an understanding smile appeared on his face. “Congratulations, baby Freddie!”

“What is there to congratulate?!” Alfred clenched his fist and the poor scone was crushed to pieces. “Am I gonna see his family? No no no this is way too fast! I’m not prepared! We’re not even in an official relationship! His home — I mean — maybe it’s just a study session between friends!”

“Don’t be silly,” Arthur added some more milk into his tea. “Have you seen Ivan ever inviting another person to his place?”

“But —” Alfred’s voice lowered to a whisper, pitiful like a balloon having lost all its air. “I’m just afraid he doesn’t see me in that way…”

Arthur took a sip of his tea. He could not help feeling a bit sympathetic: looked like Alfred was indeed serious about this.

He told his cousin to wait, and went up to his room.

“Take these just in case. I got them especially for you,” when he came back to the table, Arthur took Alfred’s hand and put a few condoms into his palm with all solemnity. “These are special stuff. They can give you emotional support even if you have no use for them — yet.”

Alfred looked down at his gifts. Something on the wrappers caught his eye.

“Why are these S-Size?!” 

Ivan waited on the couch inside his small apartment like a soldier awaiting order. He had mobbed the floor three times to eliminate all possibility of a recurrence of the unfortunate incident at the frozen yogurt shop. His older sister Irina had gone out with her colleagues, and his younger sister Natalia was at her classmate’s house for a study session. Ivan would be safe.

He was just glad since they had cut all ties with their parents, no one would beat him up till he is seventy percent dead for liking a boy.

The door bell rung.

Alfred took in Ivan’s home. The apartment was not very spacious. The living room wall was white as snow, and the furniture was super simple in style. Decorations were absent. It was more like a temporary shelter than a home.

Ivan did not seem to want Alfred to stay too long in the living room. “Let’s get to my room.”

Alfred swallowed; the condoms in his jeans pocket screamed their presence. Indeed he took Arthur’s “gifts” with him — maybe that magic fanatic really turned them into amulets of some sort. Alfred did not believe in magic, but he needed any luck he could get. 

Ivan’s room had more character, though it could not compare at all with Alfred’s own room, which was covered with X-men posters and filled with Japanese game discs and trap albums. But Ivan had a full-wall bookshelf, crammed with brick-like heavy books, in both English and Russian. 

Alfred was beginning to understand why Ivan’s backpack is so huge.

“Do sit,” said the Russian, “I’ll bring fruits.”

Alfred took out his essay, covered with red notes from his English teacher. Arthur had tried to revise it for him before but was too angry to continue after two paragraphs. Yet Alfred’s mind was not on the essay at all.

How was he supposed to tell Ivan?

Lame, Alfred! Where has all your courage gone? Doesn’t everyone say you always speak what you think regardless of the atmosphere? How come you can’t even open your mouth at the most significant moment?

He only knew he did not want to let go of Ivan.

“Sorry,” Ivan was back with a plate. Alfred noticed he did not take off his scarf even at home — during summer. “Took some time to cut the watermelon.”

Alfred’s eyes brightened. “You’ve got watermelon?” He was already sweating, as Ivan’s apartment did not have air conditioning on. A watermelon right now would be a saving grace. Would be even better if it was iced.

“Just took it out of the fridge.” Ivan told him.

Alfred immediately took a slice and bit into the red, sugary fruit. His eagerness was not just because of the weather; Alfred always wants to eat stuff when he doesn’t know what to say. One doesn’t need to speak when their mouth is occupied with food.

The watermelon was so, so very sweet.

Since Alfred took the chair, Ivan was sitting on the edge of his own bed. He gazed at Alfred, as if the way he ate was the most interesting sight in the world.

Ivan too is very very sweet, Alfred decided. He might be an ice sculpture, but this ice sculpture has some honey stuffed inside.

He felt everything around him melting. Who gave Ivan permission to be so cute? He’s cute despite being almost six-foot tall, extremely pale, and with a probable obsession with violence. Rather, even his height, his paleness and his probable obsession with violence are now cute in Alfred’s eyes. Those heavy books he reads are also very cute. His strange similes and metaphors crushed Alfred’s confidence, but these similes and metaphors in themselves are still quite cute. 

“Jones,” Ivan spoke up, “Actually, I —”

Alfred concluded that Ivan is the cutest person in the whole world and he must let Ivan know it!

So he interrupted him.

“Oh shut up Ivan Braginsky! Do you have any fucking idea how adorable you are!” he declared. “We’ve dated for so many times and you didn’t even for once say you like me! But that’s alright,” Alfred stood up, marched towards Ivan who was still sitting on the bed, and looked down at the Russian. In his excitement all the blood in his body seemed to have rushed to his head, making Alfred dizzy. “Because I’m very much in love with you!” 

Ivan was still as a snowman.

Then, his amethyst eyes blinked. 

“I…I’m very glad,” he said slowly, and as if afraid Alfred wouldn’t believe him, he added, “Really, I’m so, so glad.”

Alfred smiled a smile of triumph. He did it! THE HERO DID IT! It’s true that he can do anything with enough courage!

And everything in his sight started spinning, till they vanished into darkness.

Francis received a call from Ivan.

“Oh my dear Vanya, how is your date? My intuition tells me this is going to be the perfect one.”

“No, this is by far the worst!” Ivan sounded as if on the verge of crying, and Francis immediately tensed. “Alfred passed out!”

Francis took a few seconds to digest the information. No, Francis Bonnefoy, don’t think of Ivan in such a dirty way, he reminded himself, that poor kid has absolutely no idea. “Calm down, darling. Tell me what happened.”

“He ate a slice of watermelon!”

Silence.

“Don’t tell me,” Francis said, “It’s the same kind of alcohol-infused watermelon you guys normally eat?”

“It’s not!” Ivan refuted, clearly feeling humiliated. “I specifically changed the recipe for him this time and only used half a bottle of vodka!”

Francis hanged up. 

Without his only offsite assistant, Ivan was at loss of what to do.

He did not really want to call the head boy. Arthur was no match for him in a fist fight, but he did not wish to leave a negative impression on Alfred’s family.

It was at this moment that the Russian noticed something had fallen out of Alfred’s jeans pocket.

He kneeled down and picked it up.

It was an S-Size condom. 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker of English, I sound like a maniac in the notes at the beginning, but still I'd appreciate comments.
> 
> Please?


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